


Clandestine Operation

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bloodplay, Dark Holmeses, M/M, Murderer Sherlock, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-11
Updated: 2014-05-11
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:28:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1598312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For you, Mycroft", Sherlock's voice is low danger. "I know how much you love to watch."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clandestine Operation

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for this disaster.

Reports and reports and sodding reports are strewn across his desk, a litter of political destruction interrupted by monitors and a tangle of cables. Sherlock pants into his ear.

"Which floor?"

The red blip locating Sherlock streams through a corridor; another dot roams two floors above him.

"Sixth. Take the stairs."

There's no noise at all besides their synchronised breathing, several thousand miles apart, and Mycroft leans over his workstation, screen sectioned in quarters. He holds the cameras and Sherlock eludes them, just to be contrary because Mycroft's going to destroy them either way. He leaves no footprints, thoroughly clandestine in every stroke of his clicking fingers across the keyboard.

Sherlock's on the fifth landing, walking slow now, breathing slow now, and the screen flickers before it switches to a dark head and a holster at the hip.

"Guard ahead."

Sherlock keeps moving.

"He's armed," Mycroft warns.

"I'm armed", Sherlock mutters.

"With a _knife."_

Sherlock turns the corner, walking into the frame and he finds Mycroft's eyes, mouth curled in black amusement. W _hat in the bloody hell is he doing?_

"Watch me", he says, slippery and swift and he's traded his knife for a gun in a single fluid motion. Jagged heaves and a hard thud are the only sounds they ever hear the guard make, blood sweeping across marble, and Sherlock doesn't look twice.

Mycroft's blood sweeps dizzy and hot under his skin. He sighs.

"Was that very necessary, Sherlock?"

"For you, Mycroft", Sherlock's voice is low danger. "I know how much you love to watch."

"Target to your left. You'll find the emergency exit. Do it quickly."

Sherlock is a predator across the blueprint.

"Dear brother," he says over a surprised yell and the crack of bones, "Have you known me to do anything slowly at all?"

"I can think of a number of things, in fact."

Sherlock breathes hard, the target gurgles – asphyxiating. He's got a gun but he prefers to dig in, get dirty, blood and bone and fingernails, screams and pleas.  

"I don't think I like what you're implying, Mycroft."

"Detonating in six minutes, collect the device and leave."

"You're so demanding." A crunch, and Sherlock moans. "It's so bloody arousing."

"What are you _doing_?"

"I've got blood on me", Sherlock tells him, like he's confessing. Mycroft's taps, frantic, to find the right camera, and when he does, Sherlock stares up at him, eyes burning, blood sprayed across the pearly white of his shirt, a stripe on his collar bone, dripping dark red, almost black from his fingers. Mycroft's nerves are going to shred themselves.

"Now's not the _time,_ Sherlock", he grounds out. It doesn't matter, Sherlock's dragging stripes of blood down his torso, between his legs, and he's pulled out his cock before Mycroft's taken another breath.

"I think", he says, mouth going red, wet and deranged, "I'm going to have to prove to you how quick I can be, Mycroft."

"Five minutes, twenty seconds", Mycroft says raggedly, and Sherlock moans, thrusting. His trousers slip, black against the milky paleness of his thighs, mouth parting invitingly and Mycroft can hardly wait to have him back, have him hard. _God._

"Three minutes, Sherlock." Heart in his fucking throat, cock leaking onto his table through his fingers, and the air grows thick and hot, furnace-like. Three minutes, dwindling rapidly.

"Watch me, Mycroft", Sherlock breathes. "You're touching yourself aren't you? _Fuck."_

"Did you not wish to prove how quick you can be? Ambition can be so fatal, Sherlock."

Sherlock tugs almost vigorously, his hand blurs. He moans, feverish, pitched high and tremulous, head tipping back and the light catches his throat, catches the slowly clotting red splashed across like art.

"I can hear you leaking, Mycroft. I can hear you."

"Two minutes", Mycroft manages, and Sherlock makes a soft, keening sound, stumbling back, and Mycroft watches his brother's cock grow slick with come and blood.

Half a minute, and Sherlock is running hard, echoing through the empty hallways and into Mycroft's ear. There's a squeaking of a back door, the pump of feet. Twenty seconds, and there's absolutely no sound besides Mycroft's singular grunt.

And Sherlock lands on his feet, lands running, feline spine and limbs.

Several thousand miles away, there's a great rumble and shudder, glass and wood splintering violently in a cacophonic explosion and metal crashes down – a political rubble. Sherlock gasps, laughing, and Mycroft comes.


End file.
